


Mute Appreciation

by jedishampoo



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, UKUS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-28
Updated: 2011-04-28
Packaged: 2017-10-18 18:17:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,398
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/191815
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedishampoo/pseuds/jedishampoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sex on a fur rug. Sort of a fur rug.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mute Appreciation

**Title: Mute Appreciation**  
 **Author:** jedishampoo  
 **Pairing:** England/America  
 **Rating:** R-l8 (smut)  
 **Summary:** The usual goofiness, and sex on a fur rug. Sort of a fur rug.  
 **Notes:** Originally written for the Hetalia kink meme on LJ, the prompt “Making love in front of the fire.” [Here’s the Kink Meme link](http://hetalia-kink.livejournal.com/18439.html?thread=65266183#t65266183). Thank you to my beta, [ ****](http://whymzycal.livejournal.com/) **whymzycal,** who helped me sharpen this up.  


 **Mute Appreciation**

It was hardly warmer inside the tiny mountaintop cabin than outside. England stomped on the doormat three or four times to shake off the snow and restore circulation to his toes. America had invited him to Colorado for a ski vacation. England didn’t care for skiing and had only heard “sex vacation,” anyway, and had flown out posthaste, not considering the dreadful weather probabilities of the Rockies in March until he’d arrived to find a blizzard in progress.

America’s hulking parka and body heat moved up behind him, blocking the wind rushing in the open doorway.

“Cozy, ain’t it?” America’s white breath misted over England’s shoulder.

“Isn’t,” England corrected automatically. He leaned back a little, seeking heat like a … a heat-seeking thing. It was pathetic, but then he was pathetically fucking freezing. “I can’t feel my fingers.”

“Ha ha! Start a fire and I’ll get the generator running,” America said. His warmth left England’s shoulder as he jogged off, entirely too sprightly for such bollocks-cracking cold.

Something was up with America. Or perhaps America was up to something. Either way, his mood was more variable and incomprehensible than usual and England wished he knew why.

America had bounced around the Denver airport and fidgeted in his seat during their drive out of the city and through the mountains, fooling with his iPod instead of watching the snow-treacherous roads. England had been looking out the window, watching the sheer mountainside dropoffs in terror, when he’d been startled out of his seat by an ear-shattering blast: Melanie Brown screaming _Yo, I’ll tell you what I want, what I really, really want!_

England had scrabbled with shaking fingers to nix the volume and then looked up to see — astonishingly — America pouting at him.

“Don’t you like the Spice Girls?” America had whinged. England had just stared at him.

“They’re British,” America’d added.

“So are many other musical groups,” England had said. Obviously it had been the wrong thing to say because America had said _well, fine_ and had nudged his iPod off for good with a visible thumb-jerk.

Thus they’d driven the last hour music free, though America had not sulked for long. He’d laughed like a perfectly merry thing and called England a wimp when he’d expressed dismay that the snow was too deep for their vehicle to make it up the driveway to the cabin. They’d tromped uphill through a half-meter of snow just to get to the door.

It was a good thing England had — well, he’d missed America. His mood was inclined to be generous.

He shivered. America had suggested he build a fire. That at least was a skill England was well acquainted with, having spent centuries sans benefit of mechanical heating.

He grabbed the torch hanging from a nail by the door and flicked it on, shining it around. America’s cabin hideaway was surprisingly tidy and held only a few pieces of rustic-looking furniture — a pine table, a chair, a sofa. There was no bed. An odd-looking fur rung hunkered on the floor in front of the hearth

He dropped his bag on the table and stomped over to the fireplace. There was a tinder box, wood, and old newspaper handy; within a few minutes he’d built a small fire to wiggle his fingers in front of. A minute or two after that the lamps flickered on and an electric heater glowed orange and started humming.

England sighed in relief that they weren’t to do everything the old-fashioned way. To celebrate he unlatched his pack and pulled out the bottle of very fine brandy he’d bought at the duty-free. After the first sip he could feel his fingers tingling once more. Just as he was taking a third, America kicked open the door.

“I’m back!” he called, and tossed their bedrolls and his backpack onto the couch. He set his gloved hands on his hips and grinned at England. His cheeks were pink, his grin was white, and his spectacles fogged an opaque grey. When he plucked them off he revealed blue eyes that blurred into the pink and white and made England feel jingoistic for a land that wasn’t his own, no matter that it was blasted cold. Perhaps some sex would warm them up. England should definitely suggest it.

Any moment he would do so — right after he watched America replace his spectacles and noted the melting snow dripping down his nose to glisten in droplets on his lips. America licked them off as England watched. There were a few seconds of reciprocal, silent staring.

“So?” America said.

“What?”

“Huh. Well!” America said. He clapped his gloves and rubbed them together. “Do you want to see what I got you?”

“I … suppose,” England said.

America just stared at him, his grin inane as ever but seeming somewhat … grinnier. Like he was clenching his teeth to keep his smile in place.

“Yes, yes, of course. Show me,” England said.

America shrugged. He bounced over to his bag and dug in it, nodding at England’s open brandy bottle. “I brought some tea for you to drink, you know,” he said.

“Did you,” England said, surprised. He stepped over to have a look at the box America was pulling out of his pack. It was green. “That’s — er. Japanese green tea,” England said. He could drink it, but it wasn’t exactly his favorite.

“Yeah! It’s tea, but it’s also good for you. It’s full of antioxidants.” This from the twat who had turned his nose up at the same tea forty years ago; the ballyhooed antioxidants had made him forgetful. “And you’ll never guess what else I got you,” he continued, and pulled out a paper bag. Out of that he pulled an orange-colored, pink-spotted, glazed pastry of some sort and waved it about. It looked exceedingly sweet. England raised an eyebrow at it.

America shoved the pastry in front of England’s nose like it was a badge. “It’s a scone! Starbucks makes the best ones, right?”

England thought he should be insulted. “Starbucks? I’ve made you scones, so you should know what a real—”

“Ha ha! Never mind. We’ll save it for later,” America said, dropping the pastry into the bag whence it had emerged and rolling the bag up very, very tightly.

England stared, wishing as he often did that he could see into America’s brain to understand what he was thinking. Then he was distracted as America yanked off his cap, leaving his hair sticking up all over like Netherlands’s; England’s fingers itched to smooth the snow-damp strands back into submission.

As soon as it warmed up in here, he thought, he’d take off America’s clothing and then possibly his own. They’d lie on that white fur rug, the one in front of the hearth, and … no, that rug was too small. They’d definitely need the bedrolls, and — wait — England’s rosy sexual fantasy faltered. What the hell sort of ugly, fanged beast had died to make that rug? England walked over and stared down at it. He nudged its head with his boot.

“What the—”

“Don’t kick it! That’s an official collectible,” America cried, running over to throw himself between England and the rug, blocking it from harm as vigorously as a secret serviceman guarding the president “It even has a certificate—”

“A what?” England knelt, trying to see between America’s legs. Up close the rug didn’t even seem to be made of real fur.

America knelt beside him, once he’d apparently determined that England wasn’t going to try and kick his rug again. He patted the creature’s ugly head. “It’s a Wampa rug. Isn’t it cool?”

“Wampum,” England said. He tried to make sense of it. Had America traded with Indians for it? Was it a brand name, perhaps? Or one of America’s rarely-seen creatures like Bigfoot or Coyote or—

America gave England a drooping sort of look. “Wampa creature. From Star Wars. I can’t believe you don’t remember it.”

“Wampa.” A vague memory of snow and blue humming swam through England’s thoughts. Alec Guinness. He shook his head to clear his brain. “Of course. You do realize that’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever—”

“Ha ha!” America’s laughter cut the cold air with its edge. “Good thing I didn’t bring the Tauntaun sleeping bag, then.”

“I’m not even gong to ask,” England said.

“Awesome,” America said. He sniffed and stood, then went over to unlatch the bindings of the bedrolls. England busied himself arranging another log on the fire and stabbing at it with the poker, watching the sparks dance out of the flames.

He sighed. The sniping was normal for them — and usually enjoyable. But for some reason, today they were simply not speaking the same language.

“Whew,” America said after a bit. He unzipped and removed his ski parka, hanging it over a chair. “It’s getting warmer in here, right? Even warm enough for _really ancient_ bones like yours.”

England decided to try another language. He yanked off his own gloves, then stood and swiveled. Then he grabbed America’s face and kissed him. He’d meant it to be quick, but the surface of America’s skin was cool and his mouth was hot, a lovely dichotomy that was worth exploring further.

America put his hands on England’s shoulders and kissed him back. “You taste like brandy,” he said after a while.

“Hmm?” America tasted like pines and mountain air. England pulled him closer for another go, kissing him until he stopped trying to speak for at least a couple of minutes; speaking was only getting them into trouble.

The next time America pulled back, he seemed breathless and his pink cheeks bore a slight sheen.

“There’s no wireless here,” America mumbled.

“What the devil are you talking about?” England asked. He satisfied his urge to at last nudge his fingers through America’s hair.

“The cabin. It’s really isolated.”

“Er. I figured that by the _Road Closed Until May_ sign we passed,” England said, though he had to admit private surprise that America would venture out of wireless range.

“Oh.”

“What?” England said.

“Duh,” America said, almost under his breath, bumping his forehead against England’s enough to punctuate his word but not enough to hurt. He fumbled at the buttons of England’s wool coat until England swatted his hands away and removed it himself. “Last time you came over here, when we were back East, you were bitching that there were too many people around and that we kept being interrupted. So this time I brought us here. My phone doesn’t even work here.”

“That is a — it’s a fine thing indeed,” England said, tossing his coat to join America’s on the chair.

America smiled a little at that. England congratulated himself on successful conversation and went back to what he’d been doing before, which was breathing America around his tongue and trying to press against all of him at once. His own body heated from the inside at the energy between them, like a wire buried deep inside him was glowing hotly orange.

Sexually they got on like a house afire. But then, England had been a pervert for America for many years. Not enough to make him a sicko, of course, but plenty long. He rather suspected it had been the same for America; Finland’d spoken to England about America’s somewhat complicated _thing._

England’s _thing_ was simple. And whatever America had felt in the past, he was obviously feeling something now. Pressed so closely, England could feel his answering erection, could roll his hips against it. He slid his thumbs into the low, loose waistband of America’s jeans.

“Let’s fuck,” he breathed.

“Okay,” America said.

First things first: England plucked America’s spectacles from his nose because he also had a thing for spectacle-free America. Then he yanked open the buttons on America’s jeans and clasped his hips, dragging his jeans and him down until they were both of them kneeling on the faux-fur nerd-rug on the floor.

“Not on the Wampa,” America added.

“Why ever not?”

“Uh. The sofa is a futon. It folds out,” America said.

“I want to stay close to this fire,” England whispered around America’s earlobe. America shivered, and England guessed it was not from the cold. America didn’t protest further. He did, however, drag one of the bedrolls over in front of the fireplace, next to the rug.

They removed only the minimum of clothing — shirts, pants, underwear, thermal in America’s case. “I told you to dress warm,” America reminded him, but England didn’t need warm clothing when he had America. He pressed against him thigh-to-thigh and sucked the skin on his throat, skin that was hot from the nearby flames. Urgency sharpened every sensation — the scent of the burning wood, the nick of every one of America’s uneven fingernails against his back, the cold that bit his skin wherever he wasn’t facing the fire or touching America. Thankfully that latter was most of him; America arched against him with what seemed to be equal urgency.

England was trying to open a tube of lubricant one-handed when America snatched it from him. England was happy enough to let America take care of the job, especially when he nibbled at England’s lower lip and stroked the lubricant over England’s cock between them, his long fingers moving in firm strokes that made England’s thighs quiver.

America’s next move in their little power play was to resist every position England tried to wrangle him into, either supine or on his knees. By America’s grunting and shoving England finally deduced that he was to be the one on his back. America climbed over and straddled him, rubbing the crack of his arse along England’s cock, sinuously and teasingly.

“Let’s try it like this,” America said.

“Right. But hurry it up. I’m fucking freezing,” England lied.

“Okay! God. I was only—”

America didn’t elaborate on his plans, just huffed and lowered his bottom slowly and carefully back onto England’s cock. England encouraged him with whispers both voiced and stroked across his skin, over his chest and down his belly and up his sides. He could feel every tremor that rippled through America’s skin, every puffing breath he inhaled or blew out through his domed lips.

“There you go, there—” England said, just as—

“Ah, that’s good, God,” America said. He flattened his palms on the floor on either side of England’s head, then dropped back onto his cock all at once. England winced with him, though it felt heavenly on his end.

“Yes,” England told him.

America sat there, arse flush to England’s hips, for a few moments. England could feel America’s body relaxing around him. “You should have come out to visit me sooner,” America said, blowing out a long breath.

“You could certainly have visited me as well,” England told him as he strained his hips upwards, seeking all possible contact.

“Wait — there — yeah,” America said and pushed back, tight pressure, riveting England to the floor with his weight and his intent focus. In return, England intently watched America’s face, the flutter of his eyelashes. “There were— ah!— things going on in the world that I had to deal with. Everyone else’s problems, as usual.”

“Things that were probably not your business in the first place, I suspect. Dear God,” England told him. He clasped America’s hips and felt the muscles straining under them as America finally, finally moved atop him.

“That’s not up to you to decide. Ah!”

Diplomatic incompatibility and fantastic sex: the cornerstones of their intimate relationship. It was well they were allies because they made terrible enemies. They hurt each other too easily.

For a while they didn’t speak, just moved together, a little awkwardly, England watching America’s endearing sort of clumsy concentration as he moved above and on him, arching into his slow, teasing friction.

America could be so many things, many of them incomprehensible to England, and dangerous or helpful to the world in turns. But in these vulnerable, intimate moments, England felt like he could read America’s every thought on his face. He saw pleasure, wonder, intent, as he caressed his cheek and America turned his head into the touch.

It was good, very good, but too … slow. Awkward. He sorely wanted friction, their prior urgency. America’s weight on him grew of a sudden and England fretted at a feeling of being unable to move.

It was likely an illusion, England knew, brought on by their position, the hard floor against his back and his mounting desperation to get off. Physically America wasn’t much bigger than he’d been long ago; England was reminded of when they’d last been on the opposite sides of a conflict, enemies of a sort, when America had been independent for mere decades and slender as the edge of forever — but his strength had grown, given him mass. Too bad it hadn’t given him gravity … England _should_ have said, but something in him drew them forever and inexorably together, for good or ill.

“Roll — ah — over,” England said, suddenly even to himself, twisting his thighs, trying to wedge America onto his side.

“What am I doing wrong now?”

“Nothing! Nothing. You just … you need to—”

“Oh, fine.”

America started to crawl off and England heaved him to the side. They lay facing one another, panting. England stroked the hair sticking to America’s sweaty cheeks, trying to ease the lines of consternation etched into them.

“What is it?”

America puffed out a sharp breath. “Well, I was trying to. You didn’t even notice, anyway.”

“What?” England said again, wondering what he’d done this time.

“You are just too hard to please, sometimes. You know that?”

“What?” England was starting to feel excessively repetitive.

America sighed and rolled his eyes. “You try to do nice things for people and they just—”

“Oh,” England interrupted, because his brain had finally run ahead of America’s mouth. The tea, and the scone-of-a-sort. _Hard to please? Tell me what you want, what you really, really want._ Was it a message? No, it was just pop music. Still, while America’s efforts had been ridiculous, his sentiment had been sound. And England knew how it was to feel unappreciated. “Ah, yes. Sorry.”

He pushed at America’s shoulder until he rolled onto his back. Then England climbed atop him, kissing him and whispering _sorry, sorry, sorry_ to America’s breath. _Whatev,_ America whispered back, and then for a while they told each other things that were unspoken, read only by feeling the movement of their lips.

“You want slow, eh?” England said aloud after a bit.

“I _thought_ maybe you’d like it.” America turned his face away from England’s gaze, excellent at playing an injured party. The way he moaned, however, when England slid his hand over his sweaty belly, gave his game away.

“Hah. Very well,” England whispered. He could do slow. Deliberate, too. He worked his way into position and then eased his cock into America, pushing inside infinitesimally until America curled his limbs around him and urged him for more. All of England’s limbs begged for more as well, but he made a strenuous effort to resist.

He took one full breath before he pulled out, _slow, slow_ , his muscles tense and stretched, then two more breaths into America’s lips before he eased himself back in. He managed that three times before America let out a broken laugh, gazing into England’s eyes with what appeared to be admiration.

“Jesus. You seriously freak me out, sometimes.”

“It’s called attention to detail, lad,” England told him, taking another kiss, taking his time before moving and rolling his hips like a lazy river. America lifted his arse from the rug and rolled with him, dropping his injured act completely in favor of joining England for every enduring, excruciating second.

The seconds become minutes, minutes that England wanted to count by how many times he wanted move _faster, faster, move, dammit_. The effort to maintain his slow, slow pace was draining; every inch of him felt doused with strain and sweat. Every nerve-ending in his cock and belly and grew more sensitive -- painful, almost.

But he was proving a point, indulging himself, indulging America under him, all his. America was the only one who’d ever chosen him; that hurt every time England thought about it. So he didn’t think, just enjoyed the moments, all of them nearly perfect. America was appreciative of the effort involved, at least.

“How can you—” he _ahh_ ed on a long sigh as England’s fingers dug into his thigh, holding him steady so he could ease back inside him, centimeter by exquisite centimeter “—you’re killing me. Uh. Want me to try again?”

“Am I too heavy?” England twisted his fingers into America’s hair, twisted it into the fake fur as he gripped the rug and anchored himself to ease his cock out again, for the fifteenth, or fiftieth, time. Who knew? He’d lost count. He smelled the fire again and felt the thumping, dull pressure of America’s erection, hard and slick, pushing against his belly.

“God, no. You’re not heavy at all.”

“Twat,” England breathed, a half-laugh, half-moan. America grinned at him, his face pink and shining from sweat and firelight, and England’s chest tightened, joining the chorus of deep aches shuddering through the rest of him.

America matched his slow breaths, timed the squeeze of his fingers on England’s sides with the clench of his thighs. He was so nearly perfect and the angle of his head was so heartbreaking that England stilled, trying to hold everything and etch it onto his brain for safekeeping.

Then America’s sweaty thigh slipped from his fingers and his foot hit the floor with a fake-fur-muffled thump. They both laughed and the near-perfect moment was broken, though England couldn’t say that what replaced it wasn’t equally lovely.

He slid his cock out of America and collapsed against him, nose to nose, breathing rigorously while his limbs trembled. He and America were both still hard, bellies and cocks sliding together in an incredible, erotic mess of semen, sweat, skin, and lubricant. He kissed America’s eyelid.

“I will admit to you,” England said between breath-catches, “that the Spice Girls have some very sing-able tunes.”

“I know, right?” America laughed as he said it and looked so unguarded and youthfully pleased that England’s heart was left utterly undefended.

He thought of many things to say, none of which he had the courage for. “Shall we finish?” he asked instead.

“God, yes.”

“You were very patient,” England said.

“Ha ha! I totally was.”

England propped himself up on his hands and smoothed back America’s hair from his forehead, then got a sufficient grip on his thigh. He slammed inside America's body hard, fast, a sloppy counterpoint to his own earlier control. America gasped and his head hit the bare wooden floor as he arched off the rug.

England gained a quick rhythm, overwhelming himself with sensation, heat, sweat, the taste of America’s pulse below his ear. The earlier over-stimulation had pushed him so far that he had nowhere to go; he soon climaxed, shuddering, America’s sweat on his lips and his name a moan deep in his throat.

Even spent, he had just enough presence of mind to wank America to completion with a few quick strokes. America cried out in England’s ear, his voice perfect and exactly as England had heard in his dreams since … well, forever.

England then flop-burrowed against America’s sweaty, sticky body and enjoyed a few minutes of pure satiety and freedom from movement or thought. America twiddled his fingers on England’s back in a rhythm that seemed random and was actually quite soothing.

After those few minutes, England’s exposed parts — the ones on the non-fire and non-America sides of him — grew prickly with cold as his sweat chilled in the still-cool air inside the cabin. At least his feet were warm.

“Need a blanket,” he mumbled into America’s collarbone.

“That tickles,” America said. He did nothing to rectify the blanket situation.

With great effort England heaved himself up and then off America. He sifted through their pile of commingled clothing for his shirt, at the very least.

America sat up beside him. He gasped.

“Shit! My Wampa.”

England pulled his shirt on and watched as America examined his sci-fi creature. At some point, they’d managed to shift their sexual activities off the bedroll and full onto the rug. It was clearly mashed and matted with bodily fluids.

“Oh,” England said, unable to dredge up any true dismay.

America sat up and put on his spectacles. His indignance must have kept him warm because he made no move to re-dress himself at all, just stared at England.

“I wonder if I could have it dry-cleaned,” America said.

“How would you possibly explain it?”

“Hell if I know.” America sighed. “Well, you owe me.”

“Do I?” England paused in buttoning his shirt to raise a questioning eyebrow.

America stood, naked, and stretched. England just watched and enjoyed the view and verified to himself that America looked as slender as ever, no matter what he weighed.

“Yeah. We have to do it however I want to do it next time.”

“Very well,” England said, mostly hearing that _next time_. He thought for a few moments, and then decided that full disclosure was only fair. “I do not ski, you know.”

“Ha ha! I know that.” America walked, still naked, over to the table. “How about some of the tea? And the … uh. The scones.”

England opened his mouth, then shut it. Then he opened it again. “Yes, thank you,” he said, feeling quite magnanimous, if pathetically besotted.

  
 **END.**

Thank you for reading! All comments and concrit are appreciated like whoa.

The rug is like this one: <http://www.entertainmentearth.com/prodinfo.asp?number=CS69164> It’s so awesome, and it’s the first thing I thought of, and certainly the first fur rug _I_ would own if I had my own mountain cabin.


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